


cannot go to the ocean

by somehowunbroken



Series: sleep tight [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Magic, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 17:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7811176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What comes easy never comes free. What comes hard doesn't, either, but Dylan doesn't mind putting in the work. He's pretty sure this thing with Mitch will be worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cannot go to the ocean

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the third installment of this series! blame this one on S.; when i told her the last one had a scene based on "goodbye my lover" by james blunt, she responded with "but what about 'almost lover' by a fine frenzy?" so this is completely 100% her fault. <3
> 
> thanks to ari, S., and J. for all of the help and encouragement. <3
> 
> title is from "almost lover" by a fine frenzy, naturally. cry with me!
> 
> there is a soundtrack to go with the story! [listen to it here.](http://8tracks.com/somehowunbroken/cannot-go-to-the-ocean)

Dylan's a little disappointed that he's being sent back to Erie, but he's not actually surprised. He's not stewing about it at all, no matter what Mitch says when he calls to laugh at whatever dumb thing Dylan has snapped him lately, or what Connor says when he calls to talk about Edmonton in quieter and quieter tones of voice.

That's actually why he's not more pissed about being back in Erie, he figures. Being back in Erie means he's got spare time that he wouldn't have in Arizona, and when he points that out to Mitch just as the OHL season is about to start, Mitch goes quiet. "Yeah," he finally says. "We've got a lot of free time. We can figure this out."

That's how Dylan finds himself balancing a schedule of captaining the Otters with auditing classes at the local community college. He doesn't slack off with his hockey, not by a long shot, but time that he probably would've spent talking to Coach or working on his shot or getting some extra skating time in is spent learning as much as he can about advanced casting and practical applications of ward charms. Mitch does the same thing in London, covering their bases on advanced breaking and recent developments in curse theory, and they compare notes on an almost daily basis.

It's kind of great, working so closely with Mitch on something that's so important. They've played together on the international stage a bunch of times; Dylan always enjoys that, and it's not like hockey _isn't_ important. It's just that the whole curse/demon thing, as terrible as it is as a whole, gives Dylan a whole new level of appreciation for Mitch's thoroughness and dedication to being the absolute best at what he does.

It takes half a season and Connor breaking his collarbone before they finally come up with a plan. There's a little too much "and then we wing it" for Dylan's style, but it'll work. Probably. They told Connor they were going to fix this whole thing, and Dylan will be damned twice before he goes back on that.

"Hey," Mitch murmurs. Their flight is almost deserted, and Dylan's glad for it. He's a little strung out right now, and the fewer people he has to deal with, the better for everyone involved. "We've got this. That thing isn't expecting us."

Dylan blows out a breath. "We don't know what to expect, though. Not really."

"We have a plan," Mitch says confidently. "We get in, Connor distracts it, you bind it to the dimension, I break its hold on Rexall. Done."

"Do you know how many things could go wrong in there?" Dylan asks, flexing his fingers. "Like. What if I don't get the binding spell in place before it sees you? What if I can't shield you and keep it from touching Connor at the same time? What if—"

Mitch reaches out and takes Dylan's hand, lacing their fingers together. Dylan falls silent, more out of surprise than anything else. They've been heading that way, maybe. Probably, Dylan thinks. But with everything else that's been going on this year, it got pushed to the back burner. Later. Always things for later.

"We've got this," Mitch repeats, quieter this time. He squeezes Dylan's hand. "We can do it, Dyls. You and me, we can handle this." He flashes a small grin. "Just think: we'll be the ones to actually save the Oilers."

Dylan snorts. "And nobody will ever know."

"Eh," Mitch says, shrugging. "Davo'll know, and the merry band of three. Credit's overrated anyway, when it's not about who wins the scoring title this year."

"Last year counts too," Dylan responds automatically.

Mitch grins. "Nah."

"You're the worst," Dylan says with a sigh, but he's smiling a little, too.

"Nah," Mitch repeats, squeezing Dylan's hand again.

They're quiet for the rest of the flight. Mitch doesn't try to take his hand back, so Dylan just keeps holding on.

-0-

Everything goes right.

Or, well. Puck ends up snapping Mitch's leg, which is not optimal, but by the time Dylan's head clears after they get out of Puck's little gray hellscape, Nugent-Hopkins already has it halfway to healed. Mitch won't even end up missing a game. They're all fine, in the end, and Dylan almost can't breathe with how relieved he is.

Connor won't stop thanking them, which is to be expected; Dylan somehow _isn't_ expecting for Nuge to be the one to get Connor to stop, but he reaches over and casually takes Connor's hand, and then Connor's too busy blushing and stammering to thank anyone for anything. Mitch just grins when Dylan blinks at the two of them, reaching over to take Dylan's hand like he hasn't since they let go to get off the plane.

"Cute," he says, nodding at Connor and his blush/smile combo as Connor looks back and forth between Nuge's face and the hand he's still holding.

"Totally," Dylan agrees, smiling at Mitch. "Adorable."

"Shut up," Connor mutters, glaring at Dylan. "You have no room to talk, so whatever."

"Sure don't," Mitch says cheerily before Dylan can formulate a response.

Nuge snorts. "Everyone's super adorable, nothing is terrible, and I'm hungry. Who wants food?"

It's the most effective diversionary tactic there can be when you're talking to hockey players in the middle of their seasons: the "who's cuter" conversation is dropped in favor of arguing over which place they should get carryout from. By the time their Thai arrives, Dylan has almost put it out of his mind. Almost, except Mitch didn't really let go of his hand through the whole conversation. So really, it's not anywhere close to out of Dylan's mind.

They don't stay for long after they cast Puck out. The Oilers have off until after the All-Star weekend is over, but Mitch and Dylan have to play each other on Friday, so they take the day after the whole spell thing to recover, then hop on a plane back east. It's quiet in a different way, more exhausted relief than nervous tension, but that doesn't stop Dylan from taking Mitch's hand as soon as they take off and holding it until they land in Toronto.

"Hey," Mitch says when they're waiting at baggage claim. "Told you we'd do it."

"You were right," Dylan says, sighing as obnoxiously as he can. "Happy?"

"Mostly," Mitch replies, bumping their shoulders together with a grin. "I, uh. Have a question, though."

Dylan wouldn't say he's on guard, exactly; he's pretty sure that it's about all the hand-holding, and he's pretty sure he knows what his answer's going to be if Mitch asks. He grabs for Mitch's hand quickly and squeezes it once before letting it drop. "Uh," he says. "Yeah, I… yeah. But car, maybe?"

"Right," Mitch says, glancing around like he's only just remembered that they're in the middle of an international airport in the middle of the day. "Car."

Their bags come out shortly after that, and by the time they get to the car, the silence feels heavy in a way Dylan can't quite define. Expectant, maybe, or maybe charged. He's not sure, and he's trying to keep himself from getting on edge about it.

Mitch waits until they're in the car with the heat blasting to speak again. "So."

"So," Dylan repeats.

"I think," Mitch says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "We both know what's going on here, yeah?"

"Yeah," Dylan says. He lays his hand out on the console, and Mitch only hesitates a second before taking it.

"Yeah," Mitch echoes. "I want to."

"Me too," Dylan says. It feels easy in a way it maybe shouldn't.

Mitch squeezes his hand tightly. "But…"

Dylan really doesn't want there to be a _but_. "But what?"

"But we're always going to be across the puck from each other," Mitch says quietly. "I want this, I do, but that's… it's never going to be easy."

"That doesn't mean it's not worth it," Dylan says fiercely, clutching at Mitch's hand. He doesn't seem to be attempting to take it back. "Just because it's hard doesn't mean I don't want to."

"We will only see each other two times a season," Mitch says, voice tight. "Plus the All-Star game if we're both lucky. That's a hell of a long-distance relationship."

Dylan swallows and forces himself to let go of Mitch's hand. "If you don't want to…"

"I'm not saying that," Mitch says immediately. "I don't know what I'm saying. Maybe I'm saying… maybe we should wait."

"For what?" Dylan asks. "At least we're close right now. We have a few more games this season, and you know we're gonna face each other in the playoffs. If it's distance you're worried about, well, no time like the present."

Mitch gives him a small, tired smile. "You're like a force of nature when you've got your mind set on something, you know that?" he says. He's quiet for a moment before going on. "I expected it when it was saving Davo, you know? I didn't really… think it'd be like that. With this."

"I don't know if you mean that as a good thing or a bad thing," Dylan says. "Give me something to go on here."

"I need to think," Mitch says after another pause. "Let's just… I'll drive, okay? And by the time we get back to London, hopefully I'll have half a clue."

"Hopefully," Dylan echoes.

It's a two-hour drive from the airport back to Mitch's billet house, and other than the radio, the car is quiet the entire way. Dylan's trying to think of anything he could say to convince Mitch if he decides it's not worth it, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realises that if Mitch doesn't want this, then Dylan doesn't want to have to convince him to. He's pretty sure he's made his case; if Mitch doesn't want what Dylan wants, then that's that.

Dylan's trying hard not to be nervous when Mitch pulls his car to a stop in front of his billet house, but it's no use; his stomach is tied in knots. He clears his throat. "So? Any revelations?"

"I don't know," Mitch says. He's gripping the steering wheel so tightly that Dylan's worried for his fingers. "There's no good answer here."

That makes Dylan swallow hard. He takes a deep, even breath, then nods. "Okay," he says quietly. "Okay. If that's what you think—"

"I don't _know_ ," Mitch repeats, frustrated. "Can we just—"

He unbuckles his seatbelt and twists so he's leaning over the center console, and Dylan has half a second to think _oh_ and tilt his head to the side before Mitch is kissing him.

It's softer than Dylan was expecting; Mitch kisses him like an exploration, like he's looking for something specific but wants to remember every detail of the search. Dylan follows where he's led, trying not to push for anything more than Mitch is willing to give him, but fuck, is it hard. He can't help the way he reaches up, tracing his fingers along Mitch's jawline until he can thread his fingers gently through Mitch's hair.

Dylan isn't sure why that's what turns the kiss into a needy, desperate mess of a thing, but he's not exactly complaining. Mitch gasps and leans farther into him, and Dylan has no idea if he's found what he's looking for or not, but Mitch is kissing him like he's starving for it.

Or, Dylan thinks dizzily as Mitch pulls back, like he's getting all he can now. He can see a million things flash through Mitch's expression: satisfaction, regret, an intense hunger. Dylan wants to drag him back in, wipe any doubts he might have right out of his head, but he forces himself to keep as still as possible. He can't make himself let go of Mitch, not yet.

"This," Mitch says, then stops. His gaze drops to Dylan's mouth, then snaps back up to his eyes. "This is why I don't know if I can do this, Dylan."

Dylan frowns. "I don't follow. I thought…"

Mitch gives him the ghost of a grin. "That's not a knock on you. That's a knock on my own self-control. If we try this, if I let myself do this, fall for you…" He shakes his head a little. "I'm not good at giving up things I love, and it — it wouldn't take long."

Dylan can feel his eyes going wide. He reaches out blindly, wrapping his free arm around Mitch and pulling him into the best hug he can manage with the console still between them. "You wouldn't have to give me up," he whispers into Mitch's hair. "Not now, not ever."

"Toronto," Mitch says quietly. "Arizona. We'd just keep leaving each other. Maybe if we both had a year left in juniors, but we both know that's not happening."

Dylan squeezes his eyes shut and does his best to pull in a deep breath, but it's shaky. He feels like he's falling apart, like he's already lost something that he never really had to begin with. "Okay," he finally manages. "I'm… I won't fight you on this. If that's what's best for you, then — then I'll… deal."

"I'm not saying no forever," Mitch says, pulling away and wiping at his eyes. He sounds like he's barely keeping it together, too, and Dylan hates to take any measure of comfort in that, but he's far from perfect. "Right now, though, right now I don't think I can. I don't think I'm ready for that."

"Let me know," Dylan says immediately. "The second you change your mind."

Mitch's eyes close and he shakes his head the tiniest bit. "Don't wait on me," he says, quieter than Dylan's probably heard him say anything ever. "I'm not good at this. Please don't say no to someone else because you're hoping I'll sort my shit out, Dyls."

Dylan reaches for him again, drawn in a way he's never quite been before. He isn't going to convince Mitch to change his mind; he's not even going to try. He can and will respect Mitch's decision here, even if it makes something in him want to curl into a ball and scream.

"One more kiss," he says, aware of how hoarse his voice is. "Please."

Mitch nods quickly, then opens the car door and climbs out. Dylan unbuckles himself and opens his door, and by the time he does, Mitch is there, leaning over to shove Dylan's seat back as far as it'll go and climbing into his lap.

"One more," Mitch says, already leaning in.

There's nothing gentle about the kiss this time; it starts out desperate, both of them clutching at each other as tightly as they can, and it doesn't slow down from there. Dylan drinks in every second of it greedily, trying to memorise each detail, every press of their mouths, every little sound Mitch makes, the feel of Mitch's hands on his shoulder, his neck. He's aware that they're both trembling, the aftershocks of their conversation leaving Mitch reeling as much as Dylan is, probably, so Dylan curls his hands tighter into Mitch's shirt and holds on for as long as he can.

Eventually, though, Mitch pulls away. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding gutted.

"I love you," Dylan says helplessly. His eyes widen. "Shit, no, I didn't mean to tell you that. That's — you have to do what you have to do. I'll manage."

Mitch leans back in, but this time it's just to bury himself against Dylan's chest. His breathing is erratic, and Dylan doesn't want to think it's because he's trying not to cry, but they're in the same boat here. Dylan wraps him up in a hug and tries to breathe through it, the enormity of what he's feeling, what they're not going to be doing. It's difficult.

"I could try," Mitch says eventually.

"You already said you couldn't," Dylan says, closing his eyes. "Don't — don't. Not because of what I said. That wasn't fair."

"I don't want to say no," Mitch says. He sounds wrecked.

Dylan wants so, so badly to tell Mitch to change his mind, to say that they can do it, that whatever doubts Mitch has are things they can work through. He doesn't want to pressure Mitch into this, though; he'd made his case very clearly.

He takes a deep breath. "No," he says. "Not right now. Not yet."

"I probably love you, too," Mitch says. "If that's worth anything."

Dylan presses a kiss to Mitch's temple. "Yeah. It is."

"And I'll let you know," Mitch goes on, voice wavering. "If I think I can. I'll let you know immediately."

"Yeah," Dylan says. "Okay."

They're quiet for a moment. Dylan's not sure what else he has to say, but he doesn't want to leave yet. Mitch doesn't seem inclined to move, either, so they just stay where they are until Mitch sighs. "Can we still be friends?" he whispers.

Dylan's arms tighten around him before he can even think about it. "Of course. Of _course_." He tries for a laugh. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Good," Mitch says. "If I lost you because I don't want to lose you, well, that'd pretty much be the worst."

They both laugh a little at that, but it's short-lived. Mitch finally sits back, red-eyed and miserable-looking. He's still the best thing Dylan's ever seen. "We should," he says, looking out of the car.

"Yeah," Dylan says. "I should get to the hotel."

"Yeah," Mitch says. He takes a deep breath and climbs out of Dylan's lap, and Dylan shoves his hands under his legs so he doesn't immediately reach for him. Mitch turns around and offers Dylan his hand, which is the sweetest gesture that Dylan has no idea how to deal with. He lets himself take it, though, and Mitch pulls him out of the car and into another hug. January is biting into the air around them, though, so it has to be short. Dylan forces himself to pull away and turn, grabbing his bag from the back of the car.

"I'll see you," he says as he turns back around. Mitch has his arms wrapped around himself, but Dylan knows it's not all to ward off the chill. "Kick ass, eh? Win all the things, except the things against us."

Mitch gives a shivery laugh. "I'm not promising anything," he says. He steps in one more time and brushes his lips against Dylan's before turning and heading into the house without looking back.

Dylan gets into his car, and as he heads for the hotel, he tries really, really hard not to feel like he's leaving part of himself behind.

-0-

Dylan throws himself into hockey more than he maybe ever has in his life, year leading up to the draft included. It's not that he doesn't want to talk to Mitch, and it's not that he doesn't want to hear about Connor and how happy he is with his new boyfriend, and it's not that he's not amused by Brinksy and his ongoing drama with the girl who works at the Timmie's they stop at during road trips. It's just that he needs a little time, a little space, and hockey still makes sense even when nothing else does.

It pays off; the Otters end the season in first place, and it's a great feeling. Dylan's pumped heading into playoffs, enough so to convince the whole team that they need to get their hair bleached as a bonding experience, and even though his own hair ends up looking like a failed homebrew dye experiment, it makes the rest of the guys laugh. They're still laughing as they tear through Saginaw and then the Greyhounds, and then—

It's not like they haven't faced each other since they talked, Dylan thinks as they skate their warmups. The Knights and Otters have faced off five times since Dylan and Mitch flew back from Edmonton, and it's been fine, mostly. Dylan's not always good at separating his feelings from his hockey, but he's been able to box up everything Mitch-related and pretend it's not there when they're facing each other, so it's been bearable.

Now, though, it's like he has to specifically focus on not skating over to Mitch. The urge is strong enough that he purposely bumps into Brinksy, just so Brinksy will shove him back. It starts a decent shove fight, which is enough to get Dylan through his warmup. He does his best not to look at the other end of the ice as he's heading back towards the locker room, but he can't keep himself from glancing over as he steps off the ice.

He almost trips when he locks eyes with Mitch. It's like a shock to his system, and the only thing keeping him from skating to the visitors' exit and following Mitch down that tunnel is Williams behind him, plodding along in full goalie gear. It looks like Mitch is having a similar reaction, and Dylan shivers hard as he forces himself to tear his gaze away and keep walking.

He might, very possibly, not be fine. He could very, very possibly be fucked.

Dylan tries to take it one game at a time; when the Knights take two off them in their own building, he tries to slow it down even more, to go period by period. He feels out of sync, like his limbs are responding too slowly, like his brain's a little behind what his body is doing. He wishes he was surprised when they can't pull together a win to save their season, but mostly he's just a shaking mess on the ice.

The handshake line is the worst. It's never fun to be on the losing side, and it's worse when Dylan knows for a fact that he's going to have to shake Mitch's hand and not crumble right there. He manages most of it pretty well, but when he gets down the line to Mitch, he doesn't have enough left in him to not reach out. He feels better when Mitch reaches right back, and then they're crashing into each other, holding on tightly.

"So fucking proud of you," Mitch mutters into his ear.

"You," Dylan says, too choked up to actually say anything relevant. "Do it, okay? Do it."

"For you," Mitch promises, and then he's backing away, moving on down the line.

There's nothing left to do but trudge off the ice, strip out of his uniform, and try to shower some of the loss away. It's a dismal, sorry atmosphere in the locker room and on the bus; it's part of Dylan's job as captain to try to raise spirits, but he's completely out of energy, physically and mentally. It's all he can do to drag himself from the bus into his hotel room, and he honestly considers just sleeping in his suit.

Brinksy's the one who snaps him out of it, at least a little. "I will text Davo if you're blaming yourself," he threatens. "We were all out there, Stromer. Change, get in bed, and stop sulking by yourself."

Dylan surprises himself by laughing a little. Brinksy too, if the look on his face is anything to go by. "Gonna sulk with me?"

"You better fucking believe it," Brinksy says, giving him a fierce smile. "Pajamas, now. We're gonna cuddle it away."

It's ridiculous, but it also sounds at least a little appealing, so Dylan makes himself change and then scoots into his bed. Brinksy jumps in after him, bouncing a little on the mattress before attaching himself to Dylan's side like a limpet. Dylan laughs again as Brinksy cuddles him super aggressively. "I can't sleep like this," Dylan says.

"Try harder," Brinksy replies, voice stern. "I will call Dad. And by Dad, I mean Davo."

It's useless to argue, so Dylan wraps an arm around Brinksy's shoulders and wriggles until he's more comfortable, and shockingly, he drops off almost immediately.

He wakes early in the morning to Brinksy snoring in his own bed, and has a solid minute of confusion before he notices the note on the table between their beds. It has Brinksy's sorry excuse for handwriting on it, so Dylan picks it up.

_Sorry, had to spell you to sleep. Your boy was worried about you and I told him I'd take care of you. PS go back to sleep!!!!!_

Dylan's heart clenches in his chest, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Of course Mitch would be worried; of course he'd ask. Dylan's a little overwhelmed, if he's being honest with himself, and he grabs his phone off of the table before he really thinks about it. His last text with Mitch is from before their series started; they'd agreed to lay off until one of them won. Now, Dylan sends him a blue heart emoji, then shuts his phone back off and rolls over. It's still early; he'll take Brinksy's advice and go back to sleep.

By the time Dylan wakes up again, Mitch has sent the sparkly heart emoji in return. It's not a lot, but Dylan feels a little better anyway.

It's like the floodgates open after that. Dylan has to go through the process of boxing up his life in Erie and moving back to Mississauga for the summer, but Mitch is there to talk him through it; Dylan can't bring himself to watch the OHL final, but he looks up box scores and texts encouraging things Mitch's way every time he does something ridiculously amazing, which is pretty much always. They keep texting, and keep texting, and it's like something in Dylan settles a little. Mitch isn't with him, literally or figuratively, but it's not nothing.

He feels significantly better when the Knights absolutely steamroll their way through the entire Memorial Cup championship. They really are just that good, and Dylan still would rather not have gone out, but at least they got beaten by the best. The final game is closer than it should be, but Dylan never doubts that they'll pull it off somehow.

Dylan has to shut his television off and distract himself when the overtime goal goes in. He's a little overcome, really, and he needs to do something else so he can pull his shit together before he texts something really embarrassing to Mitch. He texts Brinksy instead, who has been excited about the tournament but also nervous about the combine, and that's good for a solid two hours of talking. It's not like Dylan has to work hard to think of good things to say about Brinksy and his hockey and how any team would be lucky to have him.

By the time Brinksy winds himself down, Dylan's pretty much ready to go to sleep. He'll just text Mitch in the morning, he decides as he gets ready for bed. He probably won't check his phone until then. He probably won't even be sober enough to until at least noon.

His phone chirps at him as he's climbing into bed, though, and when he looks at the screen, there's a text from Mitch waiting.

 _got you what i promised i'd get you,_ it says, and then there's a trophy emoji and four hearts, Knights colors and Otters colors mixed together.

Dylan smiles and sends back every heart he can find.

-0-

Summer goes quickly, just like it always does, and then Dylan's facing down another training camp with the Coyotes. He loves the facilities in Glendale, the staticky feel of their magic against his skin as he walks in every morning, and he likes his teammates. He wants so, so badly to make the team this year.

He skates his heart out, does his best to make plays and shoot when it's his turn to shoot, and then he goes back to his hotel room and tries not to dwell on what he didn't do perfectly. It's enough to be coachable, he reminds himself. It's enough to be good and show that you're willing to let them help you be great.

He and Mitch text sporadically; they're both busy, both trying to make teams that might still want them to play in juniors. Hockey comes first, and they both know that, so it's mostly just talking about how tired they are or how cool it is to share the ice with some of the other guys.

Dylan tries not to be too nervous when he's called in to talk to the GM and the coach a few games into preseason, but he can't help texting Mitch and Connor both. _probably about to find out. wish me luck._

Connor sends back a string of exclamation points and a thumbs-up. Mitch just texts back _congrats, i know you're gonna do it._

Half an hour later, he's leaving the front office in a bit of a daze. He pulls up his text conversation with Mitch, then decides, fuck it, he's calling.

"So?" Mitch asks, not bothering with a hello. "Am I right, or am I right?"

"You can't tell the future, shut up," Dylan says, but he can tell he's grinning too widely to sound anything but elated. "I made it. I'm on the team."

Mitch whoops so loudly that Dylan has to pull the phone away from his ear for a moment. He can't wipe the smile off his face, and he's not even tempted to try. "I knew it," Mitch shouts, and Dylan brings the phone back to his ear.

"You done?" he asks.

"Maybe," Mitch says. Then, because he's sometimes a jackass, he whoops again. "I knew you'd do it."

"Which means you're definitely making the Leafs," Dylan says. "If I made my team, you're for sure making yours."

"Eh," Mitch says vaguely. "I'm still kinda scrawny compared to a lot of the guys in the locker room."

"That just means you're better at wiggling through places other guys won't fit," Dylan replies, heading for the parking deck so he can drive back to the hotel. "I would know."

"I guess you would," Mitch says, sounding a little cheerier. "I should find out in the next few days, I guess? It might happen. I'm just trying not to get my hopes up."

"Fuck that," Dylan says, climbing into his car. "You're one of the best people I've ever played with or against and you know it. It's not even a contest, okay? You're going to make it."

"Thanks," Mitch says, sounding pleased. "I'll let you know when I find out."

"You'd better," Dylan says as he starts the car. "Speaking of, though, I should call Davo. And, like, my family, I guess."

Mitch inhales sharply. "Wait, you called me first?"

"Uh," Dylan says intelligently. "Yes?"

"Oh," Mitch says. There's a long, quiet pause. "I… I don't think I'm actually surprised by that. I mean, I am, but…"

Dylan closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the headrest. This is definitely one of those moments he doesn't want to fuck up. "You know you're important to me," he says.

"I know," Mitch says immediately. "And you're important to me, too."

"I know," Dylan returns, opening his eyes and gazing out at the arena. The air is shimmering, half from the heat off the pavement and half from the ward spells. "I walked out of that meeting, and you're the first person I thought about texting. And then I thought, no, I should call, because this is a thing I want you to hear, not just read, and I want to hear it, too. I wanted to share it, and you're the first person I wanted to share it with. You know?"

"Dylan," Mitch says quietly. "I still…"

"No, I know," Dylan says hurriedly. "I'm not trying to change your mind or push you. I'm just trying to explain, I guess."

Mitch lets out a sigh. "I'm glad you called."

"Me too," Dylan says. "I'm gonna go, okay? I really do need to call everyone else. And, like, I got a bunch of team stuff I need to look over, and I need to decide which of the guys who offered I'm gonna room with. Lots of shit to do."

"Okay," Mitch replies. "Hey, Dyls?"

"Yeah?"

"I knew you'd do it," Mitch says, voice full of quiet confidence. "You're amazing, and you deserve this, and I'm really happy for you."

Dylan's glad he decided to stay in the parking deck until he hung up, because he has to squeeze his eyes shut again. "Thanks, Mitch."

"You're welcome," he says. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay," Dylan says. "Let me know when you find out they're keeping you, eh?"

Mitch laughs. "You'll be my first call, too," he promises.

"You don't have to—"

"Dyls," Mitch breaks in. "You will. Deal with it."

Dylan swallows and nods, even though nobody can see him. "Okay. I can deal."

"Good," Mitch says approvingly. "Talk to you later."

"Bye," Dylan replies, disconnecting the call before he can blurt anything else out. There's no need to say _I wish you were here with me,_ or _I still love you more than pretty much anything._ He's pretty sure that's taken as read.

Everyone's incredibly thrilled for him; his mom cries, and so do both of his brothers. He FaceTimes Connor to tell him, which ends up being an excellent decision if only because that means he can see Connor get so excited that he falls off the sofa. He's barely finished telling everyone he wants to tell before he gets a call from Max Domi personally welcoming him to the team and making a solid pitch for why Dylan should room with him. It's a pretty convincing case, and Dylan finds himself agreeing pretty quickly, so that's one thing off his list.

He's still working on that list the next morning when Mitch calls, breathless with excitement, to tell him that he made the cut for the Leafs. "Called it," Dylan says, as smug as he can manage while he's smiling this hard.

"You did," Mitch agrees. "I wish—"

He cuts himself off, and Dylan doesn't need to hear how he would have ended that sentence. He's got plenty of ways to end it himself, and he's sure a lot of them line up with Mitch's sentiments.

"Yeah," Dylan says instead of filling in the blank. "We'll deal, though."

Mitch is quiet for a moment. "We're bad at this," he says finally.

"What?"

"Maybe I'm just bad at it," Mitch goes on. "Because this feels… I don't know, Dylan. Doesn't this feel like…"

 _More,_ neither of them says. Dylan swallows hard. "Sometimes," he acknowledges. "But it doesn't have to be. Not until you're ready, and only if you want it."

"It's not that I don't want it," Mitch says quietly. "That part is never going to be the problem."

"I know," Dylan replies. "I know."

Mitch sighs. "I should go," he says. "People to tell, that kind of thing."

"Right," Dylan says. "Hey, I'm proud of you, okay? You deserve this."

"Thanks," Mitch says. "I… yeah. I like you best, how's that?"

Dylan smiles so widely his cheeks hurt. "Same. Absolutely."

"Good," Mitch says. "Catch you later, Dyls."

"Catch you later," Dylan echoes, hanging up.

It's going to be a good season, he thinks. Maybe he doesn't have everything he wants, but he's got enough. It's a good place to start.

-0-

He's on a beach, relaxed on a towel while the sun warms his skin. He can hear water rolling up onto the shore, and he shifts a little just to stretch.

Someone laughs beside him, low and easy. "Cramp?" Mitch asks, and Dylan turns his head to open his eyes. Mitch is stretched out on his stomach, propped up so he can read the book that's open in front of him. Dylan's smile for him is automatic, and Mitch grins back.

"Hi," Dylan says, and Mitch's grin widens.

"Hi," he replies. "Did you actually fall asleep? I didn't think you would."

"Nah," Dylan says, shrugging. It's a weird motion to make when you're laying down; Dylan can feel the towel dragging beneath his shoulders, the sand shifting beneath that. "I don't think you can sleep in dreams."

The smile drops from Mitch's face. "What?"

Dylan sits up and glances around. He doesn't recognise the beach, and besides, he knows that he laid down for his pre-game nap in his room in Domi's apartment a little while ago. It's definitely a dream, then, not that he had much of a doubt. He turns back to Mitch, who's now sitting as well "Dreams," he says, reaching out to poke Mitch's arm. "This is one. A nice one, but sorry, you're dream-you right now."

"Dylan," Mitch says slowly, eyes going a little wide. "This is my dream. _You're_ dream-you right now."

"What?" Dylan says blankly.

Mitch gestures at the water. "Where are we? And don't say the beach."

"Dream beach?" Dylan offers. "I don't know. It's just a beach."

"No," Mitch says. "This is Cavendish, out on PEI. My family came out here a few times when I was a kid."

Dylan looks around, but there's nothing that immediately confirms Mitch's assertion. "Says you," he says. "Why would I be in your dream? There's no reason for me to be in your dream."

"Unless," Mitch says quietly. He reaches out and spreads his fingers, palm towards Dylan, and Dylan can see his magic glimmering, blue and green and white currents eddying over his skin. "We've done this before, Dyls."

"We haven't," Dylan starts, but then he remembers: Connor's dream last year in Edmonton, sitting beside Mitch in the nosebleeds at Rexall, watching in horror as Connor skated himself to death. "Not like this," he amends. "And I'm not even convinced this is happening."

"Humor me," Mitch says, wiggling his fingers.

Dylan sighs but complies, reaching his hand out and watching as the cords of his magic spring from his wrist, wrapping crimson and navy and white around his forearm, snaking their way up his hand to curl around his fingers. He raises an eyebrow at Mitch. "Happy?"

"I think," Mitch says, reaching out and taking Dylan's hand.

Something in him shudders, and Dylan feels some sort of tension he hadn't known he was carrying release. He slumps forward a little bit, right into Mitch's space, and Mitch turns his head so he can brush a kiss against Dylan's temple. It's another shock to his system, like all of a sudden he's breathing easier. He's got no idea what's going on, but there are faint alarm bells going off in the back of his head.

"What's going on?" Dylan whispers. 

"I think," Mitch repeats, drawing back a little. He looks down at where their hands are joined, and Dylan follows his gaze.

He almost snatches his hand back in shock. The cords of Dylan's magic are flowing from his fingers, circling around Mitch's wrist, and Mitch's magic is flooding around Dylan's hand. He's never seen magic _do_ that before, not ever, and he's not sure what it means. The alarm bells are going off way more strongly now.

"I think," Mitch says for a third time, and that's when Dylan wakes up, phone blaring his alarm on the bedstand.

-0-

Dylan isn't ignoring Mitch. He's not. Except, well—

"You're ignoring him, and now he's bugging me," Connor says, clearly exasperated. His voice is a little tinny; apparently the reception in the apartment he's sharing with Nuge this season isn't so great. "What gives, Stromer? I thought you guys were…"

"It's," Dylan starts, then sighs. "It sounds dumb to say it's complicated, but, like."

Connor snorts. "I lived with the entire Hallsy and Ebs situation," he says. " _That_ was complicated. Try me."

It's a fair point, Dylan concedes, except he's really not sure where he should start. He thinks about it for a few seconds before deciding to just go for it. "He kissed me," he says. "Well, at first. We, uh." He coughs.

Connor snorts again. "Yeah. Moving on."

"But then he decided," Dylan says, faltering a little. "This was after Edmonton, all of it. We talked about it, and he said he's not ready, not for something this big and this long-distance, so we're… not. Doing anything."

"Oh," Connor says quietly.

"I love him," Dylan says, the words spilling out of his mouth like they had in the car in January. "And, like, I get what he's saying. It's not an easy thing, and if he doesn't think he can do it, well, I'm not going to ask him to change his mind."

"Shit," Connor says, sounding a little stunned. "Wow."

Dylan laughs a little miserably. "It is what it is, you know? Except…"

"Except you guys have been friends this whole time," Connor says slowly. "So something happened. Something recent."

"You could say that," Dylan mutters. He's not sure how to explain what happened; he's still not really sure of it himself. He sighs. "So, like. Remember when you had your dream, and Mitch and I were in it with you?"

"Yeah?" Connor replies, confused. There's a sound like something falling over. "Wait, shit, did Puck get out? Did one of you guys—"

"No," Dylan cuts in. "No, no way. It's never getting out of there, okay? Not without some serious outside help."

Connor lets out a relieved-sounding breath. "Okay. So why bring up the dream?"

"More the dream-sharing," Dylan says. "As in, we did. Share a dream, me and him."

"Huh, I didn't know that was a thing," Connor says.

"It's not," Dylan says. "It's totally not. People don't just share dreams, not without…"

He trails off, because ignoring Mitch has been a good way to avoid thinking about what's actually going on, but now he's remembering: the way he and Mitch had each been sure it was their own dream, how their magic had interacted, the dawn of realisation on Mitch's face right before Dylan had woken up. He grabs his laptop and does a quick Google search for Cavendish Beach, and yeah, it's exactly the beach they'd been on in his dream.

In Mitch's dream.

Dylan takes a slow breath. "People don't share dreams," he repeats. "Not unless something… not unless they do something really big."

"Something really big," Connor echoes. "What kind of big are we talking about here? Something illegal? Unethical?" He takes a breath. "Should I get Ryan? He's a really good caster, he can probably—"

"No, I mean," Dylan interrupts. He makes a fist and studies it, watches as he tugs his magic to the surface and it coils around his wrist. It's red and white now, mostly, with Erie's navy fading to the thinnest strands in the cord. He studies it carefully now, like he hasn't let himself since that dream. There's a single strand that stands out when he does, because it's not his. It's green and gold, plied together and twisted into the larger cord of Dylan's magic. It's Mitch's magic, right there with Dylan's, nestled in like it's always been there.

"Dylan?" Connor asks cautiously.

Dylan swallows hard. "I have some of his magic," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "And I think he has some of mine."

"That's," Connor says. "I'm guessing that's not a thing either."

"It's not," Dylan agrees. "It's, like. Do you remember _Antony and Noemie_?"

"The fairy tale?" Connor asks. Dylan can hear him frowning. "Not, like, the details, but sure."

"Okay, well, skip the beginning parts, they're not important," Dylan says. "At the end, they defeat the werewolves, they rescue the king, and the queen gives them a gift in return."

Connor hums a little. "A castle to live in, the queen's crown to remember them by, and a rainbow's end so they'd always have a source for their magic."

"Yeah," Dylan says. "Did you see the Disney version when you were little? It came out when we were, like, six. Maybe seven."

"Yeah," Connor says. "But I don't think I've seen it since then."

Dylan's pretty much always grateful for Connor, but never so much as in times like these, where he lets Dylan get to his point without getting impatient about it. "At the end, when they're in their castle, after the baby is born—"

"—they throw a giant party," Connor remembers. "And everyone's there, and then the credits roll."

"Right," Dylan says. "But when they're setting up for the party, Noemie takes the crown down to polish it, and then hands it off to Antony to put back. And from that point on, whenever either of them uses magic, it's both of their magics, all wrapped around each other."

Connor is silent for a long, long moment. Dylan waits; he's been out-stubborning Connor for a long time. "So," Connor finally says. "Instead of werewolves, you guys worked together to get rid of Puck, and the rescued king is the Oilers as a whole."

Dylan doesn't correct him; Connor's the king in any rendition of this fairy tale, and the rest of the team is his court. It's not worth the argument, though. "We didn't get a crown or anything, but I think… I think the magic blending thing, I think we got that."

"Dyls," Connor says, but there's nothing after that.

Dylan finally huffs out a breath. "Unless I'm totally crazy."

"Not ruling it out," Connor says, but it's automatic, without heat. "You have to talk to him."

"I know," Dylan says, He stares back down at his hand, at the line of green and gold settled so neatly in against the rest of the magic he can call upon. "I know I do."

-0-

It's four days before Dylan sits on his bed, takes a deep breath, and summons his magic.

It's no different from when he did it the other day on the phone with Connor; the individual threads are mostly Coyotes colors, deep red and clean, crisp white. His Erie colors are still present, even if they're not prevalent anymore, and there's one strand of green and gold running along the outermost edge of the cord.

It takes concentration Dylan hasn't needed to call upon in years to pull the magic apart. It's really higher level magic than Dylan had trained to do, but Burky had done it as sort of a stress-relieving thing during Dylan's first year in Erie, and he'd shown Dylan how to do it when he'd asked. Now Dylan sits and focuses on the parts of his magic that are the Otters and the parts that are the Coyotes, and he slowly pulls those parts back into himself. It takes a while, but he's left with the single shining strand of Mitch's magic.

He flicks his wrist and it curls down around his hand, settling like a bracelet against his skin. For all that it's definitely not his own magic, it behaves exactly like his own would; Mitch visualises his magic like it's water, and Dylan had kind of been expecting the green and gold to puddle into his palm when he'd unwound it. He strokes his finger against the thread and it shivers against his skin.

Dylan isn't all that surprised when his phone rings less than a minute later. "I'm sorry," is what tumbles out of his mouth when he picks up the call. "I shouldn't have ignored you."

"Nope," Mitch agrees. "You're ready to talk now, though."

He doesn't sound accusatory, and Dylan marvels a little. He can't imagine their situations begin reversed and him staying so calm. "Sorry," he says again, because it can't hurt.

"Dylan," Mitch says, and his voice is way gentler than Dylan maybe deserves. "I forgive you for freaking out. You're talking to me now, so let's talk."

"I told Connor," is what Dylan goes with. "Uh. Kind of… kind of all of it."

"I figured," Mitch says. "I told my brother, as long as we're telling each other who we told other stuff to."

"Okay," Dylan says. He looks down at strand around his wrist. "So."

"So I think we exchanged magics," Mitch says. "There's a red and blue droplet in mine now."

Dylan swallows. "I've got a thread of green and gold."

Mitch lets out a loud breath. "Wow."

"Yeah," Dylan agrees. "The only time I could even think of this happening was at the end of _Antony and Noemie_."

"Yeah, Chris brought that up, too," Mitch says. "Puck's our werewolf leader, and the king could be a bunch of things, really. The Oilers, or Eberle and Hall's relationship, or…"

"Connor," Dylan finishes. "We both know it was actually Connor."

"We do," Mitch confirms. "So we did the magical journey thing together, and we did a heroic rescue together." He goes quiet. "I think, when we kissed…"

Dylan forces out a chuckle. "What, true love's kiss at the end of a quest?"

Mitch doesn't laugh. "Tell me you didn't feel different when you left that night. Tell me it didn't feel like you were doing something wrong, driving away."

"I," Dylan says, but he can't say anything like that. He remembers the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he was heading in entirely the wrong direction; he remembers how difficult it had been to keep the car pointed towards the hotel, instead of turning right back around and going back to Mitch. "It was awful."

"As soon as I shut the door," Mitch says shakily, "I threw my keys as hard as I could down the hallway, so I wouldn't get back into my car and follow you."

"Did you know?" Dylan asks. He feels unbalanced, like the rug is being tugged out from beneath him.

"No," Mitch says. "I had no — you know what they say, about magic being part of you."

"My grandma always says your magic is your soul," Dylan says.

"So we traded pieces of our souls," Mitch says quietly. "And I don't know how, or what it means."

"Are you," Dylan says. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Do you want to undo it?"

"How?" Mitch wonders, and Dylan tries not to react, or at least tries not to let Mitch hear him do so.

"I don't know," he says, not opening his eyes. "If you — we can find a way. You don't have to be stuck with this. With me."

"That's," Mitch says, and he sounds horrified. "Dylan, no, that's not what I meant. I'm sorry."

Dylan opens his mouth to tell Mitch that it's okay, but suddenly he can't make himself lie. "I'll ask around," he says instead. The words taste like rot dripping from his mouth. "There has to be someone who knows."

"Don't you dare," Mitch says, suddenly fierce. "Unless you want—"

"No," Dylan cuts in. "You — how I feel, that hasn't changed. At all."

"Then don't," Mitch says, voice softening. "I'm not _stuck_ with you, Dyls, fuck."

"Sort of are," Dylan points out, opening his eyes. He holds his wrist up, where the green and gold thread is still wrapped. He lifts his shoulder so he can balance his phone against his ear, and then reaches out and very deliberately rubs his finger against it.

Mitch lets out a gasp. "That's you," he breathes.

"Yeah," Dylan says. "Still sure?"

"Hold on," Mitch says. He's quiet for a minute, maybe a little more, and then Dylan feels—

It's like a whole bunch of good feelings all at the same time, like scoring a series-clinching goal and laughing over an ice cream sundae in secret because it's still the season and breathing the same air as someone else just to be close. It's Mitch's arms around him, holding him tight, whispering something comforting in his ear before he steps away.

Dylan has to blink a few times. "That," he says, breathing a little heavily.

"I'm sure," Mitch says firmly. "If I'm stuck with you, then you're stuck with me. This goes both ways."

It brings a smile to Dylan's face, at least. "Okay," he says finally. "If you change your mind—"

"Not gonna happen," Mitch cuts in.

"Good," Dylan replies. "But if it does happen, well, we'll figure it out. Okay?"

"Okay," Mitch says. "Hey, Dyls?"

"Yeah?"

Mitch takes a deep breath. "Are you… I don't want you to if you don't want to, but…"

"Ask," Dylan says after a moment, trying to make his voice as gentle as possible.

"Tell me again," Mitch says, barely audible.

Dylan feels like his heart is in his throat. "I love you," he says. It's no easier the second time, throwing the words out there, but they're no less true.

"Yeah," Mitch breathes out. "Yeah, Dylan, I love you too."

It's like the world stops, shakes, restarts; Dylan's breathing restarts, too, as he slumps back against his bed. "Oh," he says, just as quietly as Mitch had spoken before. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Mitch confirms. "I don't… I don't know how to do this. Any of this. I still don't even know if I should, but… yeah."

"Tell me again," Dylan echoes, smile creeping over his face. "Please."

"I love you," Mitch says. "I don't think I ever had a chance not to."

Dylan closes his eyes again, letting himself revel in this moment.

-0-

The start of the season is _hard_.

Dylan had sort of thought he would be prepared for it; between listening to his older brother moan about his first season and helping Connor through his own, Dylan thought he at least had a clue about everything he'd be dealing with. And it's not that he doesn't; he knew to be prepared for the tiredness, for always being hungry, for bone-deep aches that don't have time to heal before you have to do things that just make them ache more. It's just that _knowing_ it's all coming doesn't make him any more prepared to _deal_ with it.

"I'm tired," he groans as he flops face-first into bed. They're somewhere in northern New Jersey, and Dylan honestly doesn't care which town it is, which hotel. They started the season at home, but left immediately for a six-game road trip, and it's kicking his ass.

Domi snorts. "Sleep," he advises. "Also, bud, get used to it. You're gonna be tired until June."

Dylan waves his hand in the direction of Domi's voice. "Don't jinx us," he warns, but he's already most of the way towards asleep. "Wake me up, okay? Later."

If Domi replies, Dylan doesn't hear it.

He dreams he's back in the desert, sitting somewhere at the edge of Glendale, watching as the sun slowly sinks beneath the sand. It's a sight that still hasn't gotten old; Dylan kind of hopes it never will. The heat makes everything shimmer as the light disappears, part magic and part nature.

"Pretty," Mitch says from right next to him.

Dylan doesn't jump. They haven't shared a dream since that first one, but somehow Dylan figured Mitch would be here tonight; it's not like he has any sort of grasp on when it will happen, or any clues as to why, but somehow he'd known anyway. He reaches out immediately, and Mitch takes his hand without hesitating.

"I miss you," Dylan says, still watching the sunset.

"I miss you too," Mitch says. "You came all the way out east for six games and not one of them was against us. Lame."

"I'll talk to the scheduling team for next season," Dylan says, laughing a little. "We'll play each other on alternating nights, twice a month. How's that sound?"

"Better," Mitch grumbles, leaning against Dylan's side. "I hate the distance."

"I don't love it," Dylan says, wrapping his arm around Mitch's shoulders. He feels better instantly; it makes sense, as much as any of this does. Being this close to Mitch, to the part of his magic that Mitch carries, of course it'd help.

Mitch sighs and burrows in a little bit. "So this is Arizona?"

"Yeah," Dylan says. "Welcome to Glendale. It's usually hotter than this, but I guess dreams don't want us to sweat too much."

"I'm for it," Mitch says decisively. "This isn't the view from your bedroom or anything, is it?"

Dylan laughs. "Not hardly. We're more towards the actual city center, not too far from the rink."

"I wonder," Mitch muses. "D'you think we could go there? Like, you know how in dreams you don't travel places, you're just there?"

"Huh," Dylan says, frowning a little in concentration. He can feel the edges of the dream, wispy like fraying fabric. "Maybe. Close your eyes."

"Okay," Mitch says agreeably. Dylan does the same, grabs the edges of the dream, and tugs a little; he opens his eyes when he feels it shift and settle, and sees his bedroom.

"Hey," Dylan says, nudging Mitch in the side. "Welcome to mine."

Mitch's face breaks into a huge grin. "Cool," he says, standing from Dylan's bed. "Give me the tour."

"Bedroom," Dylan says, spreading his arms wide. He pats his pillow wistfully. "I miss this bed. It's a great bed."

"Good bed, best bed,' Mitch says, leaning over to pat at it. "C'mon, show me around. How funny will it be when I come visit you in December and I already know my way around Domi's apartment even though I've never been there?"

Dylan snorts; the look on Domi's face will be priceless, probably. "Okay, let's do a tour," he says, opening his bedroom door.

Except this is a dream, Dylan remembers abruptly, because his bedroom door doesn't open into the hallway like it should, Instead, on the other side, there's another bedroom.

Mitch inhales sharply. "Oh," he says. "This is… that's my room in Toronto."

"Kinda figured," Dylan says, looking in. "If we go in, does that mean we go from my dream to yours?"

"Who knows?" Mitch says, shrugging. "It's just a bedroom. There's nothing exciting there."

Dylan raises an eyebrow. "You were pretty excited to see mine a few minutes ago." When Mitch waggles his eyebrows, Dylan groans and flicks his ear. "You know what I mean."

"I just wanted to see," Mitch says, stepping away from the door and into Dylan's side. "You live here, so it's yours. That makes it important."

Dylan turns so he can gather Mitch up and give him a proper hug. "Okay," he says simply. Mitch threads his arms around Dylan's waist and sighs, tucking his face against Dylan's shoulder. They stand there for a little while, not really rocking back and forth but not quite standing still, until Mitch stiffens in Dylan's arms.

"Alarm," he says, pressing his face against Dylan's neck. "I'm about to wake up."

"Love you," Dylan says, tightening his arms around Mitch.

"You, too," Mitch says, and then Dylan is alone in his dream-bedroom.

It's a lot less appealing, now that Mitch is gone.

-0-

They play on, and on, and on.

They dream, sometimes; it's unpredictable, much to their mutual annoyance. They try everything they can think of to trigger it, but whatever it is remains stubbornly out of their grasp. Dylan continues to know, somehow, when their dreams are going to cross, but not until they're already asleep; he still has no way to predict whose dream they'll end up in.

It's tiring and it's frustrating, and on top of that their teams kind of suck, so things are rough. It's not like Dylan thinks his relationship would be any easier if his hockey was going more smoothly, but he might be less grumpy about everything when they find themselves dreaming together if at least one thing was going as it should.

"You're really good, though," Mitch says when Dylan complains about it. They're in Arizona in dreamland; Doan has a huge pool in his backyard, and Dylan's been there a couple of times for team things. It's not hard to bring up the memory, to tailor it to the bright, full sun of summer, and to toss a nice raft in to float on. They might not be able to make the dreams happen, but they've gotten better at manipulating them once they're in one together. "Like, Dylan. You have to know that you are crazy good at hockey."

"Sure, okay," Dylan says. He's confident in his own abilities; that's not what's frustrating. "'No I in team,' though, blah blah. We can't make anything happen and it's the worst."

"Tell me about it," Mitch says darkly. Dylan winces; he's pretty solidly the third-line centre, but Mitch has been bouncing all over the place on the Leafs' roster. He's getting some good minutes in, but it can't be easy, moving around like that all the time.

"Sorry," Dylan mumbles, reaching out to take Mitch's hand. "You're amazing. I'm sorry your team doesn't know what to do with the ridiculous numbers you can put up."

Mitch rolls and their raft wobbles dangerously; Dylan throws out a hand and grapples with his magic until he finds the side of the pool, settling the raft. Mitch grins into Dylan's shoulder, and Dylan's half-tempted to shove him into the water. Water likes Mitch better, though, Dylan concedes with a small sigh. Better to not.

"I wish we could just play together," Mitch says. "The only thing that sucks about making it this year is that we're not gonna get to do World Juniors together."

"You don't know that," Dylan protests. "They might let us go."

"They might let me go, you mean," Mitch says, rolling away again. "You've got a spot where you are. Me, they can't send back down without burning a year off my contract."

"Hey," Dylan says, reaching for Mitch's hand. "You really think that Lamoriello wouldn't do it if he thought it was better? _Lamoriello_?"

"True," Mitch concedes after a moment. "It just sucks."

"Yeah," Dylan agrees, squeezing Mitch's hand. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," Mitch says, closing his eyes and turning his face up towards the sun.

"I wish we could stay here," Dylan says, studying Mitch's face in profile. Arizona looks good on him, Dylan thinks idly. But then, most things do.

"I wish it was a few degrees cooler," Mitch replies immediately. "How do you not fry out here?"

"Sunscreen," Dylan says. "Also, we don't get much of a chance to actually float around in pools."

"I have a better idea," Mitch says, flicking his hand towards the pool. The water responds like it had been waiting to, spraying them with a fine mist. Mitch hums happily and opens his eyes, turning to face Dylan. "Yeah, much better."

"Whatever you say," Dylan says, smiling at him. He's just happy they get these chances to be together.

-0-

November is almost over by the time the Oilers roll into Arizona. Connor texts him as soon as his plane touches down. _you can totally say no!! but do you mind if ryan comes to dinner he wants to say hi again_

Dylan has no problem with Nuge; they're not best buddies or anything, but he's important to Connor, so Dylan has more than a passing interest in the guy. _sure no prob,_ he sends back. _still picking you up or are we meeting there?_

 _pick us up please ryan has a thing about ubers,_ Connor texts back. There's no eyeroll emoji attached, which makes Dylan wonder, but he's honestly heard weirder things than a dislike for Ubers. He shrugs it off and lets Connor know he'll meet them at six.

Connor and Nuge are waiting outside the hotel when Dylan pulls up. There's a huge smile on Connor's face, and Dylan can't help but return it as he climbs out of the car and drags Connor into a hug. "Hey, buddy," he says, rocking back and forth. "Long time, no see."

"You smell good," Connor says, laughing softly.

Nuge snorts. "He smells not like airplane, you mean."

"You smell good, too," Connor says loyally, stepping away from Dylan. "Usually. After you shower, you'll smell good again."

"Gee, thanks," Nuge says dryly, reaching out to give Dylan a quick hug. "So, where are we headed?"

"Get in, I'm your own personal Uber for the night," Dylan says, gesturing to his car.

Nuge groans. "Look, whatever he said—"

"Nothing!" Connor protests as they all climb in. "I just said you didn't like them!"

"The way they contract their drivers is weird," Nuge says. "They're super into rider privacy, which would be great, except the spellwork in the driver contract reminds me way too much of the shit we used to have."

Dylan frowns. "I thought it was recitation?" he says. He'd looked into Connor's contract, once he and Mitch had decided it would be better if they knew as many of the variables as they possibly could.

"Yeah," Nuge says darkly. "They changed it after I almost choked to death on the original spellwork."

"Jesus," Dylan says, squeezing his hands around the wheel.

"But it wasn't _malicious_ or anything," Nuge goes on. "It was just lazy and irresponsible, using the same set of spells for everyone, instead of tailoring it to the individuals."

Dylan shivers. "No Ubers, got it," he says. "You'd think someone would sue them over that."

"They're being sued for just about everything else," Connor says. "Give it time."

It says something about the mood in the car to begin with that it's a lighter topic, but Dylan grabs on with both hands. It gets them all the way to the restaurant, at least.

They catch each other up on random things while they order; Nuge was drafted with Dylan's brother Ryan, which gets Dylan a few hilarious stories about that draft that he's definitely going to hold over Ryan's head the next time they see each other. Dylan's still grinning when he shoves his sleeve up to check his watch, more habit than anything, and lays his hand down on the table.

It takes him a moment to notice that the silence at the table has gone a little awkward. "Uh, guys?" he says, glancing at Connor, who's staring at Nuge.

"Is that," Nuge asks, reaching out towards Dylan's wrist. "That's not yours."

Dylan looks down to where the green and gold is threaded around his wrist. He forgets he's wearing it most days; he's so used to carrying Mitch with him now. Nobody on his own team has commented on it, past Domi's raised eyebrow at breakfast the morning after Dylan put it there.

"Uh," Dylan ventures. "Yes and no, I guess?"

"You guess," Nuge repeats. "I'm guessing no. I can _see_ no."

"It just looks like a bracelet to me," Connor pipes up. "One of those friendship bracelets that people make out of string."

Dylan shoots Connor a look. "You can see it?"

"Yes?" Connor answers, frowning a little. "Why wouldn't I be able to?"

"Because it's pure magic," Nuge says. "Usually you can't, not unless it's directed at you."

Connor blinks a few times. "Wait, that's Mitch's magic?"

"Yes," Dylan says. He looks steadily at Nuge. "He has some of mine, too. We don't really know how or why."

" _Antony and Noemie,_ " Nuge mutters.

"That's how Dylan explained it to me," Connor says. "But they didn't get a thank-you crown."

Nuge is still staring at Mitch's magic. "And the part of yours that he has, does it do this, too? Behave like his behaves?"

Dylan thinks about Mitch's magic, and his cupped hands and the light show he held there, blues and greens and whites swirling protectively around a drop of red in the center. "Yeah," he says. "It's all… watery."

Connor nudges Dylan with his foot. "Tell him about the rest of it."

"There's more?" Nuge asks, sounding surprised. "This isn't enough?"

"We," Dylan starts, but their waiter appears to set their food in front of them. Dylan might dive into his steak to avoid talking; he's not ashamed of anything to do with Mitch, but he's pretty sure Nuge is going to have all the questions and none of the answers.

"You," Nuge prompts when Dylan is forced to slow down or risk making himself sick.

Dylan takes a deep breath. "We share dreams," he says. "Not all the time, and we can't control when. But we're in each other's dreams probably three times out of five."

Nuge has a bite of steak on his fork, and he's holding it about halfway to his mouth. He appears to have forgotten about it entirely. "What," he finally says.

"Dream-sharing," Connor says. "They do it. A lot."

"That's…" Nuge slowly lowers his fork to rest on his plate, eyes wide. "I have never heard of anything like that before."

Dylan shrugs a little. "I don't know what to tell you, man. I fall asleep, dream-me turns around, and Mitch is there. We can make the dream whatever we want once we're there, but we can't force it to happen."

"And you both remember the dreams in the morning?" Nuge asks. "Like, details and stuff?"

"Yeah," Dylan replies. He laughs a little. "We have most of our conversations while we're asleep, as weird as that sounds. We talk all the time."

"I wonder," Connor says slowly.

Both Dylan and Nuge turn to Connor. He's the non-magical one at the table; Dylan's not sure if that gives his theory more weight or less. It's definitely a different perspective, whatever he has to say.

"What is it?" Nuge asks.

"I wonder if this is Rexall's doing," Connor says. He looks at Nuge, then to Dylan. "They put so much positive energy into that place over the years, and you and Marns were the ones to get rid of Puck. Is it possible for something like that to rebound?"

"Holy shit," Nuge breathes, looking at Connor like he's revealed he's made of gold. "That's actually genius, babe."

Dylan's mind is racing. Most of the spellwork he'd seen at Rexall was there to shore up whatever desperate wards were holding at the moment, but there had been a lot of luck and wellness and happiness charms there, too. If all of that power had suddenly been released when they'd banished Puck… "We're lucky we didn't get fried," he says.

Nuge shrugs a little. "You're not the only one who had something good come out of it," he says. Connor shifts beside him, blush stealing across his face, and Dylan remembers watching Eberle gasp and shake himself and start to cry, hurling himself at Hall. He and Mitch might've gotten the brunt of the magic there, but Nuge is right. All six of them got something that day.

"Wow," Dylan murmurs. "That's… wow."

"All that magic, trying to find a way to give you guys a chance when being so far away was making it impossible," Nuge says, sounding a little awed. "So it just… did it. Broke all the rules."

"That's what magic is, though," Connor says. "It's there to break the rules. I mean, I know it has its own set of rules," he tacks on hastily, probably at the looks both Dylan and Nuge are giving him. "But magic breaks the laws of physics, chemistry, every kind of math. It makes sense that it can break its own rules from time to time."

"That's not how rules work," Nuge says, a little exasperated.

"It's kind of how magic works, though," Dylan says. "Davo's right. It's all about ways to get around what should be possible."

They all sit in silence for a few minutes. Dylan pushes his potatoes around on his plate; he knows from experience that they're delicious, but he doesn't really feel like eating anymore.

"Well," Connor says eventually, "at least you have an idea now."

Dylan laughs and shoots Connor a smile. "Very true." He sort of wonders what it means, that the magic unleashed at Rexall fought so hard to give the two of them a chance before they'd even talked about it. He wonders if it really had been sealed with them kissing, if that's what had given them a piece of each other's magic.

If it was, he vows to himself, he and Mitch will keep that part to themselves. No need to invite that kind of chirping.

-0-

They dream the night before Dylan flies to Toronto in December.

"You're so close," Mitch says. They're in the airport, for some reason: this is where Mitch was when Dylan started dreaming, and Mitch doesn't seem to want to change it. "We're gonna see each other tomorrow."

"You can see me right now," Dylan says, poking Mitch in the shoulder. "I'm right here."

Mitch is undeterred. "You know what I mean," he insists, and yeah, Dylan does. He's excited too.

"You can get away, right?" Mitch asks. "We've got morning skate, but then I don't have any team stuff until game prep the next day."

"I can get away," Dylan confirms. "I think we land while you're at skate, and then we have our own in the afternoon. We should be done by, like, four? And I already cleared everything so we can grab food and I can crash with you. I just have to be back at the hotel by nine so I can do team breakfast and all the game-day stuff with everyone else."

Mitch smiles, impossibly pleased. "Good. I'll pick you up."

"Oh, good," Dylan replies. "I'm anti-Uber now, so that'd be rough."

"Do I want to know?" Mitch asks, raising an eyebrow.

Dylan launches into the story that Nuge had told him, then adds all the stuff he's read since then. "It's just not cool," he concludes as they walk around the baggage claim. There are people milling around, just like there would be in an actual airport; it's an impressive level of detail that they don't usually bother with in their dreams. "Hey, so, why are we in the airport?"

"This is where I started dreaming," Mitch says, stopping to survey the baggage claim scene. "I didn't bother changing it."

"Okay," Dylan says, shrugging.

"I guess," Mitch continues slowly, watching as a woman probably their moms' age starts crying as she hugs a girl probably about their own age, "I won't get to see you here tomorrow. I'm not getting you from the airport, so this is like…"

"Next best thing," Dylan supplies.

Mitch smiles up at him. "Something like that, yeah. Although if we were really at the airport, I wouldn't be able to do this."

He leans in, tilting his face up, and Dylan meets him easily. It's a little bit of a thrill, kissing Mitch with the sound of so many people around them, getting the sense of _hi, missed you, glad you're here_ that they really wouldn't be able to have if they were actually at the airport.

Dylan pulls back just so he can hug Mitch, pressing his face into his hair. "Sometimes I think Davo has it easier," he mumbles. "Except, you know. Edmonton."

"I'd play in Edmonton if it meant we were playing together," Mitch says. His hands are twisted up in the back of Dylan's shirt.

"Be careful what you wish for," Dylan says, laughing a little. "If I wake up and find out that we've both been traded to the Oilers, I'm blaming you."

"It wouldn't be the worst," Mitch says, but Dylan can hear him grinning. "You, me, Davo, Nuge…"

"With our powers combined," Dylan jokes. "I mean, we already got rid of a demon for them. You'd think that would be enough."

"You'd think," Mitch agrees. "I mean, if we were there, we could keep an eye on Davo. Make sure he doesn't attract any more weird shit."

"Nah," Dylan says, shrugging a little. "You know I keep tabs on him anyway." He has since he realised how much shit gets thrown Connor's way; it had been their third game together as Otters, opposing defenseman streaking towards Connor on the ice with his stick outstretched and magic springing from his gloves. Dylan had thrown a hasty shield in the way, too shocked to really do anything more substantial, and he's kept a closer eye out since. That hasn't stopped just because they're in different cities; Dylan's got one of the Oilers' trainers on speed dial, just in case one of his Connor-alarms gets tripped.

"I know," Mitch says. "It'd still be easier if we were there."

"And here I thought you wanted to play in Toronto," Dylan says, mock-offended. "What will Matthews say when he hears you're trading him in for a better model?"

"Probably _good luck in the bowels of hell,_ " Mitch replies. "He doesn't have a hugely positive opinion of Edmonton as a whole. It's at least a little hilarious, most days."

Dylan snorts. "I mean. Even without the demonic possession, Edmonton is still kind of the bowels of hell. Just not quite so literally now."

"I haven't corrected him on it yet," Mitch says. "We'll see if I need to in the future. I'm betting on probably, at some point."

"As long as you've got a handle on that situation," Dylan says. He sighs and finally takes a step back. "So, anything planned for when we're actually in the same city?"

Mitch waggles his eyebrows, because he's the most ridiculous human Dylan has ever met. "I was thinking we'd just find food and then go back to my place and hang out," he says. "I have, like, a whole section of Loops' house to myself. It's a little ridiculous."

"Sounds good to me," Dylan says, heartbeat picking up a little. "Any, uh, plans for after we get back there?"

"Maybe," Mitch says. It sounds less flirty and more uncertain, and Mitch looks away.

"We don't have to do anything," Dylan says quickly. "Hey, hey, look at me, huh?"

Mitch flicks his eyes up at Dylan, then back away. "Look, I…"

"It's okay," Dylan says when Mitch trails off. He reaches out slowly and takes Mitch's hand, squeezing when Mitch doesn't pull away. "Pretend I didn't say that. It's fine, okay, I swear."

"It's not that I don't love you," Mitch says quietly, holding onto Dylan's hand like he's afraid Dylan's going to shake him off. "I just… haven't done that? And I don't really have any plans to."

Dylan blinks a few times. "Ever?"

Mitch shrugs, the line of his shoulders miserable. "I mean, maybe someday, if the circumstances are right? It's just... " He laughs a little under his breath. "I meant to have this conversation with you, like, forever ago, but here we are."

"Okay," Dylan says, mind racing. This is coming out of left field, a little bit, but he's not totally in the dark. "I still love you."

Mitch jerks a little, then turns to look at him. He looks stunned, and Dylan hurts for him, for everything that's happened to make Mitch feel like Dylan would just up and leave over this. "I…"

There's a moment of vertigo as the scene around them swoops and changes, the airport blurring and folding in on itself to reveal Mitch's bedroom. It's messy, clothes tossed everywhere and sheets a wreck, and Dylan's thrown for a second. It's always been pretty put together when Mitch has brought him here before.

"This is me," Mitch says, voice cracking a little. "Kind of a mess on the inside." He laughs humorlessly.

Dylan tugs at Mitch's wrist until he stumbles forward, and then Dylan wraps his arms around his shaking shoulders. "You're not a mess," he says, closing his eyes as he feels tears start to form. "Shit, sweetheart, how long have you been freaking out about this without saying anything?"

Mitch chokes out a laugh. "I mean, I kissed you in January, so at least since last November when I started seriously thinking about it?"

"Talk to me," Dylan says, holding on tightly. "Please. Anything like this, anything big, please talk to me, okay?"

"I will," Mitch says. "I promise, Dyls. And you too, yeah? Anything."

"Wait, wait," Dylan says, pulling back and frowning a little. "All the, like, kissing and stuff—"

"No, uh, that's totally a thing I'm good with," Mitch says hastily. There's color high in his cheeks. "Just, that's pretty much it. I don't really get the whole…" He makes a vague gesture with his free hand. "Sex… thing."

Dylan snorts a little; he can't help it. "Okay," he says, relief swooping in his stomach as he settles his arms around Mitch again. "As long as I haven't been, like, pressuring you without knowing I was doing it."

Mitch nods against his shoulder and doesn't say anything for a few seconds. "You're the first person I've told this to who hasn't run screaming," he says eventually.

Dylan's arms tighten around Mitch without any input from the rest of him. "They're all terrible," he says fiercely. "I love you, okay? This is… I've been doing fine with _that_ on my own this whole time. If it's not something you're totally on board with us doing together, well, that's that. It doesn't mean I don't still love you."

"I love you too," Mitch says. "I know I've been kind of weird about our whole relationship. This is… this is a big part of why. I mean, all the distance stuff, I wasn't lying about that, but..."

"Doesn't change anything," Dylan promises, pressing a kiss to Mitch's forehead. He tightens his hold as he starts hearing the ringing of his alarm, faint but present. "Hey. I love you, and I'm gonna see you in a few hours. Are you going to be okay until then?"

"I'll survive it," Mitch mumbles into his chest. "Not gonna be the greatest practice of my life, though."

"Only a few hours," Dylan repeats as the ringing gets louder. "I love you."

"Love you too," Dylan hears, but the room is already fading away, and Dylan sighs as he opens his eyes in the real world.

Domi's staring at him from the other bed, looking concerned. "Dude," he says. "That must have been one hell of a dream."

Dylan sits up and rubs at his face. "Oh?"

"You were super happy when I got up to cast a sugar-check spell like an hour ago," Domi says. "Smiling and shit. And then I just came back in here after a shower, and you were crying in your sleep."

Dylan gives him a thin smile. "Must have been something," he agrees.

Domi nods but lets it go, and Dylan reaches out and grabs his phone from his bedstand.

 _see you at 4,_ he texts Mitch. _still love you._

-0-

There's a text waiting for Dylan when he gets out of the shower after practice. It's from Mitch, directions through the ACC, and Dylan assumes it's how to get to the players' lot. He throws his phone in his backpack, says goodbye to the team, and heads out.

"Dylan," he hears as he turns a corner a few minutes later. He turns his head and sees Mitch, standing with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, back against the wall.

"Holy shit, hi," Dylan says, grin stretching over his face. He drops his backpack and crosses the hallway, stopping right in front of Mitch, who is still against the wall. He feels the smile slip off his face. "What's wrong?"

"You're," Mitch says. He shakes his head a little. "You're really just… okay? With me?"

Dylan blinks a few times. He'd really thought they'd gone over this, but he makes himself take a deep breath. Everyone else left, he reminds himself. It's gonna take some time, probably, for Mitch to believe him. "Still love you," he says softly, waiting, watching Mitch's face closely.

"You're sure," Mitch says, voice barely above a whisper.

It very suddenly occurs to Dylan that he's got another method of convincing Mitch. He brings his hand up between them and pulls his sleeve up, exposing the thread of Mitch's magic that he wears there as a matter of course. Mitch's eyes focus on it, and Dylan very slowly brings his wrist up to his mouth and presses a kiss to it.

Mitch's eyes slip closed and his head falls back against the wall. His arms drop to his sides, and he pulls in a shaky-sounding breath. They haven't done this often, this feelings-sharing thing; it's intense every time, and Dylan's concentrating on how much he loves Mitch, on how much Mitch not wanting to sleep with him isn't bothering him, on how much he's been looking forward to them being in the same space. On how that hasn't changed at all since their dream last night.

There are tears trailing down Mitch's face when he finally opens his eyes. "Dylan," he chokes out.

Dylan finally lets his wrist fall away. "Do you believe me?" he asks quietly. "Because I'll keep trying until you do."

Mitch finally reaches out and yanks Dylan in, knocking their heads together a little as he goes up on his toes to kiss Dylan. They're both crying a little as Mitch wraps his hand around Dylan's wrist, tangling his fingers in the thread of magic there. He shudders and drops his head to Dylan's shoulder, and Dylan just holds him close.

"Let's get out of here," Mitch whispers a little while later. He doesn't move at all, and Dylan completely understands the impulse.

"Gotta let go, sweetheart," he murmurs, and Mitch shakes his head and laughs a little.

"Is it weird that part of me wishes this was a dream?" he asks. "Because if it was, we could be back at my place without actually having to go anywhere."

Dylan laughs. "It's not far, right?" he asks, drawing back. He laces their fingers together. "We'll survive it."

"We're getting delivery, though," Mitch decides. "Fuck going out."

"Works for me," Dylan replies. "Lead the way."

-0-

It sucks that the only times they play each other this year are so close together, but the silver lining is the timing of the second game.

"Christmas," Dylan singsongs as Mitch slides into his car. The Leafs took the game in a shootout, the only goal scored all night, but Dylan can't be mad at all. They've got three days together, and Domi's going back to Toronto to spend it with his family. They have the apartment to themselves, and Dylan's looking forward to spending pretty much the entire time cuddling and watching every holiday special he's been saving to the DVR.

"Christmas," Mitch echoes happily, leaning over the console to press a kiss to Dylan's lips. "I'm still a little surprised our families didn't freak out, to be honest."

Dylan shrugs. "I mean, last Christmas we were in Finland," he says as he starts driving towards the apartment. "And it's not like we're still in Mites or whatever."

"Your mom cried," Mitch reminds him. "Don't think I forgot about the whole Christmas Skype thing last year."

"She's probably gonna do it again," Dylan admits. "You know my family. We're cryers."

Mitch laughs a little. "Eh, it happens. As long as she doesn't, like, hate me for taking you away for the holidays, or whatever."

"Not even close," Dylan assures him. He gets onto the highway, then reaches over to take Mitch's hand. "I'm pretty sure she's crying mostly because she's happy for me. For us."

"You think?" Mitch asks.

"I do," Dylan says. "I'm pretty sure she saw us coming before we were sure, honestly."

"She is pretty smart," Mitch observes. "It's possible."

They're quiet for a while. Dylan and Domi don't live too far away from the arena, but it can be a little bit of a drive to get there, especially with all the holiday traffic around. It's comfortable; they don't have everything figured out, but Dylan's confident that they will.

"Hey, so," Mitch says when they finally make it into the apartment. "I know it's Christmas Eve-Eve, but can we do Christmas now?"

"Whatever you want," Dylan says. He doesn't really mind.

"Good," Mitch says, smiling at him. "I didn't get you anything."

Dylan laughs. "Just wanted to get that out of the way, eh?" he teases.

"Shut up," Mitch says, still smiling. "I wanted to… hm." He frowns a little. "It's a little hard to explain."

"Okay," Dylan says. "Water? Snack? Sofa?"

"Yeah, sure," Mitch says. He trails after Dylan into the kitchen, then the den. They sit next to each other and eat in silence, and Dylan can tell Mitch is thinking something through.

Dylan finishes first and puts his glass on the coffee table. "If this is about sex…" he starts.

"No," Mitch says instantly.

"Good," Dylan says firmly. "Because I mean it."

Mitch smiles at him, soft and fond. "I get it. And I love you."

"Love you too," Dylan responds. "So. What's your idea?"

Mitch holds his hand out and draws up his magic. It's always gorgeous, watching Mitch use his magic; it's so different from the way Dylan uses his own. Dylan can see the red and navy of his own magic swirling in through the sea of Mitch's, and he watches as Mitch concentrates until the droplet of Dylan's magic is floating above the rest of it.

"We didn't mean to," he says quietly, looking up at Dylan. "When we did this, we didn't know what we were doing."

Dylan sucks in a sharp breath. "You want to — what, give it back?" He leans away a little, but as soon as he does, the droplet of his magic falls back into the pool with Mitch's as it all vanishes entirely, back into the ether.

"No," Mitch says, reaching out and gripping Dylan's wrist. His fingers slide beneath the thread of his own magic, and he shivers as he touches it. "No, fuck. I want to… do it again, I guess, but on purpose."

"Oh," Dylan breathes, letting his shoulders drop. "You scared the shit out of me for a hot second."

"I tried to think of a better way to say it," Mitch says, shrugging a little. "Sorry."

"No, it's," Dylan says, shrugging. "I like the idea, I just don't really know what to do."

"It might not work," Mitch says cautiously. "But I've been thinking about it, and I think part of the reason it worked in the first place is because we're a caster and a breaker. Think of it like a rooting spell."

"So I make the pathways, and then you close off the origin points," Dylan says, catching on. "And we keep what we were given."

"That's the idea," Mitch says. "Like I said, I have no idea if it's possible, but I… I wanted to try. To give you this, but on purpose."

"Let's do it," Dylan says. He turns to face Mitch on the sofa. "A rooting spell, you said?"

"You're the caster," Mitch says, lips quirked. "You tell me."

Dylan hums and flexes his fingers, calling up a cord of his own magic. It slides easily around his hand while he thinks. "Okay," he says finally. "You, too. I think it'll go better if I do it all at once."

"Okay," Mitch says, pulling out his own magic. It laps gently at the edge of his palm, but there's no chance it'll drip over.

Dylan spreads his fingers. The cord of his magic stretches out and lays across his hand, and he thinks about Mitch, about everything tying them together, about what doing this means to them, for them. Dylan takes Mitch's hand with his free hand, then closes his eyes.

He can feel his magic stretching out; for all that he visualises it as if it's cords and ropes, it works the same as Mitch's or anyone else's in the end. It's energy, power, and it's linked to him. It's not that difficult to link it to Mitch, to think about it curling around his wrist and settling in, pushing into Mitch's power and finding a home there.

Mitch gasps softly, but Dylan doesn't open his eyes. He reaches with his free hand for Mitch's magic, pushing his fingertips into the pool he's holding. It's cool to the touch, somehow, and Dylan thinks about drawing it back into himself, about making a space for a droplet within the fabric of his own magic and holding it close.

"Oh," Mitch says, startled, and Dylan opens his eyes and watches as Mitch's magic flows up and over Dylan's fingers. He pulls his hand back, and it follows him, pooling in his own palm.

"Wow," Dylan breathes. It's stunning, the blue and white swirling around each other but never blending. He looks up at Mitch, who has a dark flush across the bridge of his nose.

"That's," he says, swallowing hard. He holds his hand out for Dylan to see, and the cord of Dylan's magic is wound around his wrist, Coyotes red and a few threads of Otters blue. It's the perfect complement to Dylan's own, and he can't breathe for a moment, looking at it.

"Yeah," he agrees hoarsely. "Now for your part."

Mitch nods and reaches out, putting his hand on the back of Dylan's neck. "Keep your eyes closed," he warns. "It's probably going to feel weird."

Dylan shuts his eyes. Mitch isn't wrong; it's definitely strange feeling Mitch poke around at his magic, teasing out the thread that leads to his own wrist and gently pulling it free. He shivers when it's done and waits, listening as Mitch takes a deep breath. There's nothing for a moment, and then the water in Dylan's hand circles his fingers, laps at the side of his palm, and sinks into his skin.

"Wow," Mitch says, and when Dylan opens his eyes, he's smiling, wide and happy. "This is… wow."

He flicks his wrist like Dylan does to use his own magic, and the cord snaps to attention, weaving in and out of his fingers. It snakes up around his arm before circling his wrist again and settling.

Dylan concentrates, holding his hand out and thinking about ebb and flow, of the tidal pull in his head that he's recognising as Mitch. The water fills his palm, and as Dylan thinks about it, rises as a trembling puddle to float above his hand.

"Wow," Dylan echoes, flattening his hand. Mitch's magic dives back towards him, hitting his hand and shooting up and around his fingers before calmly filling his palm. He grins as it sinks back into his skin. "We did it."

"We did it," Mitch echoes, leaning in to pull Dylan into a hug. "I love you. I wanted this to be a thing we chose, a thing we did."

"Love you, too," Dylan says, tugging until they're pressed against each other. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

"Merry Christmas," Mitch says, smiling as he leans in to kiss Dylan senseless.

-0-

They don't make the playoffs.

It's not actually surprising; the Coyotes are getting there, closer this season than they had been last year, but the Leafs are still solidly in their rebuild. It's probably going to be a while before either one of them sees the post-season.

It's fine, honestly; it's nice to pack up and go home and sleep, to sit on the edge of the sofa at night and scream as Ryan and the Islanders sweep the Rangers while Connor leads the Oilers through a disappointing seven games against San Jose. Connor's jubilant about being in the post-season so quickly, though, so Dylan's happy for him. 

He's enjoying spending as much time as he can with Mitch, too. He'd endured a well-meaning but incredibly unnecessary "be safe" talk from his dad, and a more insistent version from his mother. Despite him repeating that sex wasn't on the table, they both gave him condoms. Dylan's completely baffled as to why they seem to think sex is more important than not making Mitch do something he doesn't want to do, but Mitch finds the whole thing absolutely hilarious. He's taken to blowing the condoms up like terrible balloons, drawing little faces on them, and hiding them around Dylan's room. 

"Okay," Dylan says the day after the Oilers lose their last game. He's just stepped on his third condom balloon of the day, and if his count is right, there are still four left somewhere. Assuming Mitch hasn't refilled his supply, of course. "I have an idea: let's do a vacation. A week somewhere that's not here. And no condoms," he says when Mitch opens his mouth.

Mitch pouts a little, but nods. He perks up a second later. "Do you have somewhere in mind, or can I pick?"

"Have at it," Dylan says. Honestly, he just wants to be somewhere else right now. He's used to having Mitch to himself in their dreams; he's not sure if it's because they've been physically together so much lately, but they've only dreamed together once since getting home. Dylan desperately needs some time just for them.

"Give me a little while," Mitch says, already looking something up on his phone. Dylan leaves him to it, opening his Instagram and messing around for a bit. It takes Mitch less than twenty minutes to raise his arm in the air, celly-style. "Booked. Pack a bag, babe, we're flying out in like six hours."

"What did you do?" Dylan asks, alarmed.

Mitch grins at him, but it turns soft and sweet in a heartbeat. "Let me surprise you?"

Dylan has no defense for that look, if he's being honest with himself. He nods. "What should I pack?"

"Warm weather stuff," Mitch says, standing up and stretching. He leans over to peck Dylan on the lips. "I'm gonna run back to my place and pack, then come get you. Sound good?"

"Works for me," Dylan says. "See you in a bit."

He packs a bag in half an hour, then wanders downstairs to try to explain that he's going on a mystery vacation. No, he doesn't know where they're going; no, he doesn't know when they'll be back. Dad looks suspicious, but Mom just looks amused.

"Okay, honey," she says after a solid fifteen minutes of not being able to give them details. "Well, call us when you get there safely, okay? And have Mitch leave the details with his family, so someone knows what's going on."

"Will do," Dylan agrees, escaping back to his room. He texts Mitch his mom's instructions and gets a reply in no time. _already did. omw back to you <3_

Dylan smiles and double checks that he has his phone charger and toothbrush. A lifetime spent playing hockey has taught him about the things he's most likely to forget to pack.

Mitch arrives a little while later, and as Dylan's loading his bag into Mitch's car, another car pulls up behind them. Dylan raises his eyebrows at Mitch when Mitch's brother climbs out, looking way too amused for anyone's good, but Mitch just smiles at him.

"Hey, Chris," Dylan calls, waving.

"Hey," Chris says easily. He walks over and looks at Mitch. "You tell him?"

"Getting there," he says, turning to Dylan. "So, uh. I asked Chris for a favor?"

"Is he coming with us?" Dylan asks skeptically.

"You couldn't pay me enough to go on your honeymoon with you," Chris says, snorting. "No, Mitch wants to make this whole thing as rom-com as possible."

"I asked Chris if he'd do a super minor confusion charm," Mitch says quickly. "Just so you can't tell where we're going until we get there."

Dylan groans, but he's already grinning. "You know, for a vacation we only thought of taking an hour and a half ago, you've got a lot of plans."

"I'm just good like that," Mitch says. "So?"

"Confuse me," Dylan says to Chris.

Chris laughs outright. "No, you both confuse _me_ ," he says, but he puts his fingers on Dylan's forehead and murmurs a few words, then looks at Mitch. "Okay, done."

Mitch says something, but all Dylan hears is gibberish. He blinks a few times, and Mitch's face breaks into a grin. "Awesome. Thanks, Chris. I owe you."

"You're helping Mom with the roses when you get back," Chris informs him. "She did something with the fertilizer and the watering can, and I can't get the spells untangled."

"Done," Mitch says, leaning in to give Chris a quick hug. "See you in a week."

Chris waves and gets in his car, and Mitch turns to Dylan. "Ready?"

"Ready," Dylan confirms.

The drive to the airport is straightforward, but the airport itself is a little bit of a struggle. The confusion charm means that Dylan is kind of useless with navigating, and if he loses sight of Mitch for even a second, he has to stop. Mitch takes his hand after the third time it happens, and it's easy enough from there.

The flight takes off without issue, and Mitch puts the arm rest up as soon as they're in the air. "It's three and a half hours," he says, leaning into Dylan. "And then when we get there, I'll take the charm off. Okay?"

"Okay," Dylan says. He's a little tired from the airport shenanigans, so he closes his eyes. "Can I sleep, or do we have plane plans?"

"Sleep," Mitch says. "I'll wake you up when we're landing."

Dylan doesn't dream; it's not that weird anymore, really. He mostly dreams with Mitch these days. He wakes up when Mitch calls his name, and blinks his eyes open to see Mitch smiling at him. "Final approach," he says. "Gotta get back in your own seat."

"Fine," Dylan grumbles, stretching and sitting back up.

It doesn't take long after that; they land and get off the plane, then wait for their luggage at the baggage claim. Dylan remembers the dream they'd shared in December, people milling around at the baggage claim while they kissed. He reaches out to take Mitch's hand, the most he dares to do in an actual airport; from the way Mitch squeezes back, he figures Mitch is thinking about it, too.

"Okay," Mitch says when they've got their luggage loaded into the rental car. "Ready?"

"Ready," Dylan says.

Almost predictably, Mitch doesn't take the charm off. He just grins at Dylan and drives for a little while. It seems like he knows where he's going, and a few minutes later, he pulls into a parking slot and turns the car off.

"Let's go, c'mon," he says, opening his door and climbing out.

Dylan opens his own car door, but now that they're wherever it was they were heading, the confusion charm is in full effect. He sits in his seat until Mitch makes his way around the car, because he's kind of convinced that if he tries to get out on his own, he'll wander off forever.

"Okay, this is a little silly at this point," Mitch says, laughing softly. He touches Dylan's forehead like Chris had done earlier and says something under his breath, and the fog in Dylan's mind clears.

He looks around, but he's no closer to knowing where they are. "Uh," he says.

Mitch just smiles and grabs both of Dylan's hands, tugging him out of the car. "Come on. This way."

They climb up a set of stairs in front of the parking slot, and Dylan can't bite back a gasp when they get to the top. They're all the way on the coast, beach stretching out for miles in either direction.

"Do you remember?" Mitch asks softly. "The first time we dreamed, before we knew what was going on."

Dylan nods, suddenly choked up. "Cavendish Beach, you said."

"Here we are," Mitch says, gesturing to the water. "For real, though."

"You really are a rom-com," Dylan says, sniffling a little. "This is great, sweetheart. Good choice."

Mitch smiles and puts his arm around Dylan's waist, leaning against him, and Dylan takes a deep breath and slings an arm over Mitch's shoulders.

They're gonna be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not even sorry I LOVE ALL OF YOU FOR STICKING WITH ME
> 
> -there's so much water imagery/references in the title and the soundtrack and throughout this story, wow. bonus cookies to people who puzzle it all out.
> 
> -did you listen to the soundtrack? because i have to tell you, the photo i used for the cover image is actually cavendish beach. i'm totally that person.
> 
> -i do have an end story in mind for this series, but there's a lot i want to accomplish before that point. i have at least two other stories i know i want to write before i wrap it all up, but there could possibly be more? idk, this verse has been spilling from my fingers lately.
> 
> -[follow me on tumblr!](http://somehowunbroken.tumblr.com) it's hockey. and me being mad at US politics. the hockey will be more prevalent soon, i promise.


End file.
